


Legions

by MyWolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attack, Bite, F/M, Hunt, M/M, Shifter!Lydia, Stiles is a BAMF, Werewolf, bitten, shapeshifer, shifter!stiles, werejaguar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWolf/pseuds/MyWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t come on suddenly. It’s a slow build, over days and weeks and eventually months. Stiles thinks it’s inevitable, really. Because they’re only human.<br/>Nothing more.</p><p>Until Lydia and Stiles are attacked on a hunt and suddenly they're more than human. But the creatures who attack them aren't Werewolves, they something different. Something dangerous.<br/>Struggling with their newfound supernatural strength and lust for violence, how will they cope when everything is turned upside-down?<br/>Will they rejoin the Pack that rejected them? Or will they form their own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Pack

 

 

   It doesn’t come on suddenly. It’s a slow build, over days and weeks and eventually months. Stiles thinks it’s inevitable, really. Because they’re only human. Nothing more.

   But nothing less, either.

   It begins with the by now familiar way the Wolves will push them out of the way and tell them to ‘ _Stay put and don’t move’_ when there’s any sign of trouble. Even Allison, whose accuracy with her bow grows every week, is told to sit tight and wait for the battle to end. So she always nods and sits, fingers dancing over her weapon. She doesn’t complain. Neither does Stiles, anymore. Lydia has also given up, because arguing is futile at this point. But they all feel the same way. They’re not helpless, but they might as well be.

   Two months after the Kanima debacle is over and washed away, Allison is asked to leave the Pack. It’s some crap and bull about safety and family and hunters and being ‘for her own good’. Bullshit. Utter bullshit, is what it is.   

   But no matter how many times Stiles tells that to Scott or Derek, nothing changes. And Allison leaves quietly, without tears or shrieks of outrage. She’s strong, she won’t cry until she’s alone. Stiles knows she won’t allow herself to show any weakness. Even though he thinks she deserves to be more than a little outraged by this.

   Because Stiles knows a part of Allison is broken, the others should know, too. Since her mothers death, she’s been broken, and leaving the Pack will only make it worse.

   The gap left by her absence gnaws and grows and Stiles can see the Pack trying to stitch themselves back together, catches them saying that they’re better off this way. It’s interesting, in a distant, sad sort of way. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been so disappointed in anyone before.

   Stiles begins to wonder how long it will be before he’s shut out too. Asked to leave because he’s human. He tells himself he won’t be thrown away, that he’s important, that he’s Scott’s best friend.

   But he’s not important. What has he got to offer that any of them can’t do?

   And Scott. Stiles can see the growing closeness between Isaac and Scott. Knows what friendship looks like. He notices that, when Scott wants to talk about missing Allison, or when he’s down, he goes to Isaac, when he would have gone to Stiles. It hurts.

   It hurts like someone is gripping his insides and trying to rearrange them beneath his skin. He’s intact, because all the damage is hidden inside. Unseen

   And maybe the worst part about that, is that Scott doesn’t even realise it's happening.

   Stiles starts sitting with Allison. During break. In class. Whenever he sees her. He didn’t realize how close friends they’d become and how much he’d missed her. And without Scott, he can talk to her freely.

   He tells her this, and the smile she bestows upon him is enough to lift the hurt and make him smile in return.

   “It’s not the same,” He continues, trying to eat his macaroni without gagging. “You had such influence, and without you, I feel like I’m alone.”

   “I missed you too, Stiles.” She says, a little sadly, and nudges his shoulder with her own.

   A week later and Lydia is sitting with them, seemingly uncaring that she might get dirt or damp grass on her new skirt. Her lips are pursed, nostrils flared. But when they try to ask what’s wrong, she only shakes her head and changes the subject. They let it go.

   Stiles still goes to the Pack Meetings with Lydia. It takes him a while to figure out that no one is really listening to him, he can prattle on and on and no one will even deign to reply. Maybe they’ve always done this. Maybe he just never noticed.

   At the end of the meeting, Lydia will meet his eye and frown and ask for a ride home instead of going with Jackson. They don’t say anything, but they silently agree that it’s only a matter of time. They try to cling, grasping the pack with slippery fingers but...it's only a matter of time.

   And it is. It’s when the Pack doesn’t tell him that they’re going after the stray Omega that’s been encroaching on their territory that he loses it. He sulks and grumps and stays in his room eating Fruit Loops out of the box until his Dad tells him to stop stinking up the house and go outside.

   He’s not a part of the Pack anymore.

   “Were we ever Pack?” Lydia asks primly the next day. None of the wolves are at school and it’s kind of a relief to talk knowing no one will overhear them.

   “So, what now?” He asks. Because he feels sort of empty. Hollowed out. The Pack, and Scott, were such a large part of his life, and now it’s been cut out. He’s floating heedlessly without anything to tether him down. To ground him.

   “We should form our own Pack.” Lydia answers immediately, smiling at him and Allison like it’s obvious.

   Allison look unsure. She’s a hunter. She doesn’t have any other friends. None of them really do. But without the support and closeness of a Pack, she’s feeling more isolated than ever.

   “I don’t know…” She says. But Lydia waves her hesitation away.

   “We don’t need a grumpy Alpha telling us how to be Pack. We’re human and we’re proud of it.”

   Stiles worries she’s going to put that on matching t-shirts.

  

   It’s awfully easy to slip into this Pack. The girls are intelligent and easy going, they don’t look at him like he’s an idiot when he tries to explain something, and he doesn’t feel so hollow. Being friends with them is like a revelation. At the beginning he’s always surprised when they come through for him, when they keep their promises and turn up to lunch or to bowling or to just hang. They don’t text five minutes beforehand saying they’re too busy.

   It’s so…nice.

   They carry on like this for just over a month before Allison suggests they train. Says her Dad is willing to work with them and let them use the downstairs gym whenever they want. At first Stiles is skeptical, thinks maybe it’s a ploy to turn them to the dark side. Hunters, after all. But after several visits to the Argent household, he thinks maybe Mr Argent is lonely, that the big house is empty and having something to do might take his mind off of his dead wife.

   He seems to like having the three of them around. He teaches them to kick, punch and defend themselves against larger opponents. Maybe it won’t be too effective on a Werewolf, but it makes them stronger both physically and mentally. They go for runs until Stiles isn’t huffing and puffing and drenched in sweat by the end. Even Lydia, who Stiles worried might not take well to the violence, seems to thrive on being able to protect herself.

   Stiles is enjoying himself more than he has in too long.

   He comes home after a particularly grueling session, and finds his Dad hovering in front of the fridge as if something is going to suddenly materialize for him. Eventually he sighs, and takes out a healthy microwave dinner. When he turns, he takes in a sharp breath and stares at Stiles.

   “Who did that, son?” He asks slowly, as if waiting for a lie. He gestures to Stiles face, and his hand flies up to touch the fresh bruise across his cheekbone. He winces.

   “Oh, Lydia got in a lucky hit, she's stronger than she looks.” He says and, even though it’s the truth, his Dad frowns.

   “Stiles…”

   “No! Seriously, Dad. Me, Lydia and Allison are all learning self-defense with each other. Allison’s Dad is helping us, it’s actually really fun.”

   The matter drops, but to make sure his Dad knows he’s not lying, he asks him to come over and have dinner at the Argent’s house the next night to watch them. Stiles makes sure to hide the weapons, just in case.

  

“Rogues.” Mr Argent says. “A small pack, less than half a dozen. I’ve gotten a call from a reliable source saying they’re moving this way.”

   A reliable source. They’ve heard nothing from the Pack. But then, why would they?

   “Rogue?” Allison is frowning, fiddling with the can of drink she’s holding. They’ve just been for a run, the weather slightly damp and cool, nice against the sweat drying on their skin.

   Stiles runs through his memory, dredging up any information he has on Rogues, Omegas and Ferals.

   “A rogue pack?” He asks slowly.

   Mr Argent frowns, and look away, to the line of trees behind them. “Apparently. And they’re moving fast, should be here in a few days.”

   They all three nod as Stiles asks, “Any casualties? Are they leaving a trail?”

   Because if there’s one thing he doesn’t want, it’s more bodies showing up in Beacon Hills. There’s been an astounding number of them since Laura was killed. Sometimes he wonders why the higher authorities don't seem bothered, or investigate. It's got to be suspicious, right?

   “Only Hunters and other Werewolves. I believe they’re looking for a territory, perhaps looking to grow their Pack by bringing others into the fold.”

   Which is not good.

   “What are we going to do?” Lydia smooths back her hair, she looks determined, ready.

   “We _believe_ they’ll be here within a few days but, there's no certainty. I’ve got some people I’ll call to set up a perimeter, a lookout. And when they arrive, we’ll hunt them.” Mr Argent says.

   Stiles shivers. He doesn’t know if he can do that. Hunting. But he’ll do what needs to be done to protect the town. His father. His friends. The Pack that never wanted him.

  

   Three days later finds them at the edge of the woods at dusk.

   Lydia, Allison and Stiles huddle by the jeep, watching Mr Argent and the three other hunters talking quietly between themselves.

   Stiles grips the gun in sweaty hands and tries to imagine himself shooting it. He can’t. He’s always been the sidekick, never the superhero. Robin to Scott’s Batman.

   But he has the girls, and together they make him feel not so alone.

   With Allison running gloved fingers along her bow and Lydia cradling a gun to her stomach, Stiles thinks they can protect _themselves,_ at least, if not anyone else. It’s better than nothing.

   Finally, when there’s only a faint glow of orange on the horizon, Mr Argent comes over to tell them they’ll be staying by the jeep and the other cars.

   “Back-up,” He says. “But not in any immediate danger.”

   Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but realizes that they would be more of a hindrance, because they aren’t as experienced. Allison does argue, though. Says she’s ready, that she knows what she’s doing. Her Dad isn’t having any of it, and in half an hour they’re alone, leaning against Stiles’ baby, their bodies thrumming with nervous energy.

   “So,” Stiles says after a time. Allison has taken to walking around the jeep, sharp eyes tracking any and every movement. Her boots are caked in mud. “I was thinking we could go see the new Twilight movie tomorrow.”

   Lydia punches him non-too-gently on the shoulder and scowls.

   “You are never taking me to see that inaccurate piece of crap, Stiles. Or I will personally see to it that everyone knows you have the biggest crush on Jackson at school.”

   “But I don’t!”

   Lydia smirks, flicks her fingers at him dismissively. “I know. But they won’t.”

   Stiles throws his arms into the air. He’s tucked the gun safely inside his jacket pocket, so he wouldn’t have to hold it. Lydia has too.

   “Oh, har har. You are just the greatest friend, aren’t you?” He cries. But it’s an empty threat and they both know it. Lydia is surprisingly protective of her friends. He’d never have guessed.

    None of them mention the fact that they’re still sitting out of the fight, waiting for the hunters to come back and tell them it’s safe. No one says it, but they’re all thinking it.

   Something snaps in the trees, and Stiles ignores it until he sees Allison freeze and draw her bow.

   “Allison? What is it?” He hisses.

   She raises her hand to silence him, plants her feet more firmly.

   Lydia snaps her head up, “Did you hear that?”

   And it’s such a corny, horror movie thing to say and Stiles almost cringes.

   And then,

   There’s the sound of a roar and gunfire. Shouting and curses. The three of them don’t even think, they dig their heels into the ground and run into the forest.

   It’s darker inside, with the trees shrouding them on all sides. Stiles sticks close to Lydia, as they both tail Allison who seems to know exactly where she’s going. He pulls the gun from his pocket, but can’t bring himself to take the safety off just yet.

   There’s a noise behind him.

   He turns to look. “There’s something…” Just as something heavy and furred slams into his side, forcing him to collide harshly with Lydia and send them both to the ground. The air whooshes from his lungs, and he can hear Lydia wheezing even as he tries to catch his own breath. He looks around desperately.

   “Allison!”

   He’s about to scramble to his feet when curved claws hook into the flesh of his thighs. Burning, searing pain. He screams and he thrashes. He’s being dragged backwards. His fingers scrabble down Lydia’s arms. He tries to latch onto her own seeking hands but they’re torn apart and the forest is a blur around him.

   A moment later he hears Lydia scream, over the thudding of his own pulse in his head, and shouts wordlessly for her.

   Skin rips as he flails, limbs catching on roots and brush, the claws sink deeper and Stiles thinks his legs might be torn off soon, if the pain is anything to go by. He remembers the gun, but his hands are empty. He can’t even reach the aconite dipped dagger at his belt.

   Mud is collecting under his chin, on his stomach and chest where his shirt has ridden up. His teeth sink into his tongue and the copper taste of blood momentarily overrides the grittiness of the dirt between his teeth. He thinks he’s screaming. He must, his throat aches with the force of it. But whether its anger or fear, he doesn’t know.

   Because he can see Lydia now, when he raises his head high enough. She being dragged like he is. Except he can’t make out the thing dragging her between the trees and the encroaching darkness tempting him out of conciousness.

   It’s big, with thick limbs and a large head. But it doesn’t look like a Wolf.

   _It doesn’t look like a Wolf._

   All at once, movement stops and the claws retract. He yelps. A heavy pressure presses down on his lower back, there’s a puff of hot air on the back of his head and neck.

   Stiles twists his head to one side, realizes Lydia is beside him. She’s staring at him almost sightlessly, her mouth his parted and her chest heaves. Unconciously, Stiles finds his arm stretching away from his body, reaching for her. Their fingers graze.

   The weight on Stiles’ back drives the breath from his lungs. He screams as razor sharp teeth lock around his throat. Tighten and tighten and-

   He screams and screams until his eyes roll up and his body goes limp. But he can still hear, can hear Lydia sobbing hysterically before he passes out.

 

   Stiles comes to with someone calling his name. To someone running shaky fingers over his face and down the side of his neck.

   He groans. His head and legs are throbbing, and there’s a stinging pressure from his ribs that’s making it hard to breathe. Something tickles down the side of his face.

   “Allison?” Her eyes dart to his face from where they’d been gazing down. Allison is so pretty. Even with her eyes wide with fear or horror and a bloody scratch running across the side of her neck, she’s beautiful. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking this, but he is.

   “Oh, thank god, Stiles! Are you okay! You, it's okay.. and everything will be fine when my Dad gets here...’ She leans close as she speaks, her voice a harsh whisper that sounds like she’s dragging it through glass and tears. She keeps looking around them, as if expecting something to sneak up on her.

   Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that she has her bow drawn and ready to shoot. Her hands are shaking.

   “Wha-?” There’s something in his throat, lodged there. He can’t breathe. He feels so heavy.

   “Stiles….”

   “It’s fine...fine. Don’t cry, Allison. Please just...don’t cry.” He says. A whisper.

   He’s tired. He can’t feel anything from hip to collarbone. He’s going numb, and it’s creeping outward, spreading like a poison. Maybe he’s dying.

   Where are Mr Argent and the other hunters? What about the creatures? What the hell were they?

   “Lydia?” He struggles to think. Maybe he's saying more, he thinks his mouth might be moving, but there's no voice.

   Allison breaks off with a whimper, he didn’t realize she’d been talking this whole time, hadn’t been paying enough attention to anything around him. He watches her through heavy lids as she blinks and looks away, at something just out of sight.

   Stiles has enough energy left to turn his head, his cheek pushes against the muddy ground. Something warm rolls below his eye, over the bridge of his nose and hangs, suspended, before dripping to the ground. His skin tickles.

   He wouldn’t be able to reach Lydia even if he could move his arms. His fingers twitch with the urge to touch her. But he can’t. Something close to dread curdles in his stomach.

   She is turned away, so he can’t see her face. He can’t tell whether she’s breathing. One arm is flung above her head, the other resting on her stomach. Her strawberry blond hair has darkened with mud. And maybe something else.

   That’s too much red. So much red.

   The numbness eases its way up his neck. A taste, like cloves, rolls up his throat and spreads over his tongue.

   “Don’t cry, Allison.” He tries to say, but all he hears is a faint, whining wheeze and he can’t feel his lips anymore.

   Tears blur everything, fear burns at the back of his throat. Allison’s words jumble, an incoherent mess of rise and fall sounds that make his head ache. Stiles closes his eyes, he can hear someone’s heartbeat. He hopes it’s not his.

   It’s too loud, too fast.

   A staccato rhythm in his head as he blacks out.

  

  

   


	2. Heartbeat In My Head

 

   Bones lengthen, become brittle. Grow and snap and reform. Skin stretches, soft flesh weeps. Muscles thickening, bunching. Colors fade to black and white, hints of gold in his periphery. Teeth shake loose, to be replaced by sharp, thick fangs. Fitted into a jaw capable of snapping hardened bone.

   With awareness comes the stench of fear-sweat and blood. Comes the feel of the soft ground beneath his paws, vibrations of living things moving, smells of damp and winter. Sticky wind tugs at his fur and whiskers, sharp jolts of response that make him want to run.

   Hearts beat in his mouth, panicked sounds and warm blood slick on his tongue, down his throat. Fragile bones grind down to powder, organs burst and the heartbeat softens to a thrum, and then nothing. It tastes like hunt and fresh and meat.

   A sound, up and down, small snatches of barely coherent noises. He blinks rounded eyes and lets out a chuffing grunt, a warning. This is his territory.

   Figures around him, tall, imposing. Fear ripples through his body, the hair along his spine shivers.

   “Stiles?” They keep saying. _Stiles Stiles Stiles_. “Stiles?” Like it’s supposed to mean something.

   There’s the glow of red eyes and the smell of _wolfpredatorpower_ and with that smell he feels panic enough to back up, tries to escape. Except he can’t, he’s surrounded. Trapped.

   His claws unsheathe, dig into the dirt, hooked and thick and lethal. He crouches on thick limbs, his muscles bunch and his rump wiggles as he moves from one paw to the other, preparing. Fight or flight. And they're giving him the opportunity of flight.

   The Wolf moves forward on two legs, one outstretched. _Dangerpredatorwolf_. He’s so alone, he can’t run and he’s alone. No one to back him up. So he pounces, springing into the air and colliding with the Wolf until his claws dig into warm flesh and his teeth sink in. Blood rolls over his tongue, tastes slightly bitter but still hot and triumphant.

   A shout and claws scrape at his sides. He lets go and drops to the ground, heart pounding. _Pounding_. The Wolf kicks him in the side of the head and he retreats, a whine working its way up his throat. When the Wolf tries again, he clamps down with his jaw and doesn’t let go. He feels the bones strain and then _snap,_ but he doesn’t let go. He shreds skin and muscle and it tastes so good, feels so good to know he can hurt the _wolfpredatorpower_.

   Something loud, explosive, and then there’s the burning hot bite in his flank. He gurgles a roar between the meat in his mouth. But he can’t let go, has to keep this Wolf in his grip.

   Except he can’t, because those hot burns in his flank are eating away at him like acid. Spreading through his blood, making him hurt, weak. Claws dig into the hinges of his jaw, pries it open and he can’t stop it. He backs up on wobbly legs and tries to shake the dizziness away.

   Something isn’t….something isn’t right.

   He hunches his shoulders, tips his head back and roars. He roars with fear and desperation and only a small amount of anger. The roar swallows into a low whine, his legs tremble and fold out from under him.  His sides twitch from the itch of blood running in rivets down his fur.

   Not a Wolf _humansoftheartbeat_ is looming over him, a soft hand on his head, blunt claws trembling down his face. He whines again, paws at the ground.

   And then, in the distance, there’s the outraged response to his call. First a series of breathless chuffs, and then a roar. It quakes the trees and the hand on his head retracts, dragging the smell of _softhumanheartbeat_ away with it. He wants it back. Lifts his head to try and follow.

   She bursts through the trees and lands beside him with another roar. Emotions roll over him, wafts of protectiveness and worry and rage. He chuffs weakly, noses at the leg closest to him, but she doesn’t answer. Instead moves to stand over him, protecting him from harm. Her body vibrates with tension.

   _Clansafequeen_ his mind hums, and everything goes dark.

 

 

   He wakes to the smell of _heartbeatsofthuman_ and a hand running through his hair, blunt nails scraping against his scalp in a way that makes him press into the feeling and his throat work in a purr.

   His body feels loose limbed and heavy, tired but not exhausted.

   The hand pauses in his hair when he moves, but resumes with a tentativeness that has him opening his eyes. He has to blink away the blurriness, and quell the panic trying to worm its way into his gut.

   “Stiles?” His Dad’s breath fans across his temple, leaning over to peer at his face.

   Stiles scrubs a hand over his eyes and nods. “Yeah, Dad.” He says, and his voice is dry and croaky.

   There’s another burst of breath and he finds himself wrapped up in a tight hug, so familiar that the panic eases and he leans into it, breathing in his father’s scent and relaxing. He returns the embrace, burying his face into the juncture of his father’s shoulder and throat, can hear the steady _thump tha-thump_ of his heart like when he was younger and would fall asleep on his Dad’s chest. Just listening. Just feeling the life coursing through him.

   “You smell tired.” He mumbles into cloth and closes his eyes drowsily. “Not getting enough sleep.”

   His Dad chuckles weakly, rubbing a hand up and down Stiles back. Whether it’s to comfort Stiles or himself, he can’t tell, but it doesn’t matter.

   The smell of Wolf permeates the air, and his body freezes, goes taught. His heart pounds inside his chest and his mind flits from one panicked though to the next.

   “Oh my god, Stiles! You’re awake!” The glee is obvious in Scott’s voice, but it doesn’t change anything. He’s still a Wolf and the instinct in Stiles’ body tells him to hide, get away. _Find Lydia._ There’s the thunder of many feet and many hearts beating to a staccato rhythm.

   A hand touches his shoulder and he jerks away with a whimper, pressing against his Dad and hiding his face and throat from attack. His Dad’s arms tighten protectively.

   “It’s okay, son. Scott’s not going to hurt you.”

   “But I…he’s _not….I_ can’t help….” Stiles wheezes in a panic. The hand restracts, he can almost taste the disappointment.

   Despite his urge to hide away, it’s that sadness that makes him release his death hold on his Dad and pull back enough to look at them. Because they’re all there, watching him. Waiting.

   He smiles weakly at his friend before looking at Allison. The scratch on her neck has scabbed over, has healed thin and fast. Something about that makes him feel uneasy.

   He doesn’t even notice the hand he’s stretched out to her until she sits on the on the couch beside him. She watches him warily, as if unsure what he wants, whether he’s hurt her. And to be honest he doesn’t know what he wants, only that he needs to have her close, and the worry gnawing at his gut fades a little when he tucks her fingers into his hand.

   “Are you okay?” He asks.

   “I’m fine, Stiles.” She smiles at him, then, running a hand lightly over his hair as his Dad had done. “But it’s you I’m worried about, how are you feeling?”

   “I don’t…I’m okay. I feel fine.” He says with a frown, and scoots closer.

   Everyone in the room tenses, for some reason. Their hearts beating just that little bit faster.

   Stiles freezes.

   He shouldn’t be able to hear their hearts. Nor the sound of their lungs working to push and pull air into their bodies. He’s never been aware of the strain, crunch and pop of muscle and bone with each movement anyone makes. He leans closer to Allison, drawn to the sound of her blood rushing through her veins.

   Before he knows what he’s doing, she’s beneath him and he’s breathing in the scent of her, nose pressed gently into the soft skin beneath her ear. She smells of wild and strength and roses and _clan_.

   There’s an angry growl that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He looks up slowly, still hunched over Allison protectively.

   Scott has shifted, eyes an angry gold. Stiles’ jaw aches as his lips part and he hisses loudly, a challenge.

   Scott is jerked back and away. Red eyes take their place. Derek growls at Scott warningly until the teen backs away, showing his throat in reluctant submission.

   “You need to calm down, Stiles.” Derek says, and if he thinks he can use his Alpha growly voice to order Stiles around, he’s got another thing coming.

   “He’s not hurting me.” Allison says, before Stiles can say anything.

   Stiles looks down at her, he feels the ache in his jaw recede and the sudden urge to rub his face all over Allison’s is almost overwhelming.

   “I wouldn’t hurt you.” He scoffs, and sends a glare in Scott’s direction. “You’re Clan.” The words slip out without his say-so. But that’s no unusual, so he’s not worries.

   “Clan?” This from Erica.

   “Safe. Mine.” Stiles agrees. Smiles down at Allison.

   “Not yours.” Scott takes a step forward, stance aggressive. “She’s not a shifter, Stiles.”

   What does that matter? Stiles can feel that Allison is Clan, can feel the thread of a bond tying them together. He reaches down that bond curiously, and feels the warmth of familiarity. But there’s also something else, perhaps emotions? Stiles delves deeper, relaxing when the waves of interest, unease and happiness hit him.

   “Stiles?”

   His eyes flicker open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.

   “What?”

   “Why is Allison yours?” Derek is kneeling beside them, the permeating smell of Wolf not so noxious now that Stiles has one of his Clan with him. He cocks his head to one side with a frown.

   “She’s…mine. Ours. She’s Clan.” And it’s hard to put into words, because these things he’s feeling and sensing are new.

   “Pack?” Derek asks. Stiles has never seen him so gentle, it makes it easier to be calm.

   “I suppose.”

   Derek looks at Allison, it’s clear he’s thinking. And Stiles takes the moment to study his face, the sharp angles and scruffy stubble look softened now that he’s not scowling.

   “Do you know what happened out there?” Derek asks, focusing back on him.

   The sudden attention is like a physical weight, makes him lean forward and sniff the air about Derek’s face. Wolf. Beyond Wolf there’s pine and leather and ash. Beyond that, there’s sadness and grief and….hope.

   “Stiles?”

   “We were in the forest, with the hunters.” Stiles says slowly, there’s a tug at the back of his mind. “Allison and Lydia and I were supposed to stay by the jeep.” The tug tries to draw him away, makes him want to whine and run and find her. “But we heard gunfire, and went in to help. Where _is_ Lydia?”

    His first instinct is to sniff, which it totally shouldn’t be, but he knows even before he does that she’s not here. A wash of agitation flows through the metaphysical bond.

   Lydia, he thinks. He’s tied to Lydia, which means that she’s a shifter too. Guilt and anger and panic hit him in equal turns and the sound that works it’s way up his throat is nothing short of a whine.

   “Where is she? Why isn’t she here?” he asks, voice growing with each word. His Dad’s hand his on the back of his neck and Allison is making soothing noises but, strangely, it only increases his agitation.

   Stiles scrambles off of Allison and the couch and pushes Derek out of the way without thinking. His breaths are coming in short, sharp bursts and his heart is a drumbeat against his ribcage. The cramps in his stomach flare, suddenly, and Stiles drops to his knees with a cry. It hurts. It _really_ does _hurt,_ as if there’s something beneath his skin, acid burning holes in his stomach, through his veins.

   He can hear everything. He can hear each floorboard groan beneath weighted bodies, he can hear the trees shift and grow, leaves shivering in the cold. And then there’s the blood, pumping thick and hot through those veins, so many hearts beating in tandem. Wet, meaty thuds against ribcages.

   The shift hits him and it’s a relief.

   Stiles groans from it, lets it wash over him with an ease that even vaguely surprises him. His muscles shift around surging bone and skin splits with new hair. The clothes trapping him tear and fall away.

   His paws dig into the floorboards, unsheathed claws scraping a little. His tail swishes behind him in agitation. He can’t smell her. His Clan, only the _carefulsoftwarmclan_ in the other room. Panic swells, threatens to chock him off, because he’s trapped in this box of wood and smells and he can’t get to her.

   “Stiles!” A barked word has him turning, swinging a heavy head back in slight surprise.

   The _wolfpredatorpower_ , no, _Derek,_ is standing in the doorway, behind him comes the smell of Wolf and Pack. Stiles lifts his nose, scenting fear mingling with the _softhumanheartbeat_. It churns is stomach and his hackles rise, head lowering between his shoulders in a challenge.

   “ _No_ , you need to control yourself, Stiles.” Derek says. In the black and white world, his eyes glow red. “Try to breathe. Try to calm yourself. You need to find your anchor.”

   Stiles sneers. He needs to find his Lydia.

   His lip pulls back and he hisses. Stupid Wolves.

   “I can’t let you out, you’re too new at this, you might hurt someone.”

   Stiles takes a step toward Derek, thinks, he’ll hurt Wolf if he’s not given his Lydia. The thought makes him twitch with anticipation and worry. He pads forward another step.

   “Will he hurt someone, though? He said he wants Lydia, and she’s still in the woods, isn’t she?” _Softheartbeat_ still smells of fear. Stiles whines.

   Everything is wrong. Everything is wrong and too loud and he’s alone but not. He aches for the rest of his clan, it still cramps his stomach and hurts his head. The metaphysical bond tying him to her is not calming enough, she’s not as present as he wants her to be. _Help, come back, need you, hurt_ , he send down that line. A message in a bottle, waiting for the reply to was up.

   “We can’t risk it.” Derek snaps, makes Stiles jerk back into the moment and growl.

   “He won’t hurt anyone.” A warm, hesitant hand on his head, reaching out to slide weak claws through his hair. Stiles calms somewhat, eased by the familiar smells of his Dad, though he hadn't noticed him approach. He grumbles for a moment, before pushing forward and twining around the man’s legs, rubbing his face and mouth against him to let the Wolves know they can’t touch him.

   “Mine.” He wants to say, but the words won’t come.

   His Dad stumbles against the enthusiastic rubbing, catches himself on Stiles shoulder so he stops, looking up at him. He’s as tall as his Dad’s stomach, tall enough that he could rip out his insides without straining higher. The thought stops him dead for a long moment.

   “See,” His Dad says, and the fear smell isn’t so strong. “He’s not hurting _me_.”

   “Because you’re his family, you smell familiar.” But now Derek can’t lie to Stiles, he can’t keep things. It makes him angry that Derek’s trying to. “It’s just his instincts.”

   “Stiles isn’t a killer.”

   The words stop Stiles short. His Dad loves him, maybe he doesn’t trust him, but he loves Stiles. But if Stiles searches deep in this new form, seeks out the things that make him who he is, he knows his Dad is wrong.

   Stiles could do it. He has no doubt that he could kill someone if he has to.  

   The thought fills him with such longing to be with Lydia, because she would know what to do here, she would make everything alright again.

   He doesn’t realize the low, whining sounds is coming from him until his Dad lowers himself into a crouch and grabs his face, a brave move considering how big Stiles is. He talks to Stiles in a low, soothing voice that he’s heard so many times in his seventeen years that it’s almost an automatic response to lean forward and nuzzle into his father’s shirt, just over his heartbeat. He breathes in, tries to make sense of everything.

   Stiles didn’t want this. How many times had he thought about Peter’s offer? How many times had he been so abundantly relieved that he had said no? And yet, fate is twisting him a cruel path. Giving him the choice, but then taking it away from him, as if he’d made the wrong decision.

   And what was he, now? He was a monster. He was just like Peter, bloodthirsty and dangerous.

   A WereJaguar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Tetrishead by Zoe Keating

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Legions (War) by Zoe Keating


End file.
